There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain:
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.
We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood’s sterner reign:
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.
~Richard Henry Stoddard~
I live; this much I know; and I defy
The world to prove that I shall ever die!
But all men perish? Aye, and even so
Beneath the grasses lay this body low;
Forever close these eyes and still this breath;
All this, yet I shall not have tasted death.
Where are the lips that prattled infant lays?
The eyes that shone with light of childhood days?
The heart that bubbled o’er with boyhood’s glee?
The limbs that bounded as the chamois free?
The ears that heard life’s music everywhere?
These, all, where are they now? Declare.
Forever gone, forever dead! Yet still
I live. My love, my hate, my fear, my will,
My all that makes life living firm abides.
Death is my youth, and so my age must die;
But I remain – imperishable I.
Speed day and year! Fleet by the stream of time!
Wings, birds of passage, to a sunnier clime.
Come change, come dissolution and decay,
To kill the very semblance of this clay!
Yet, know the conscious, the unchanging I
Through all eternity shall never die.
~Willis Fletcher Johnson~
We are all of us dreamers of dreams,
On visions our childhood is fed;
And the heart of a child is unhaunted, it seems,
By ghosts of dreams that are dead.
From childhood to youth’s but a span,
And the years of our life are soon sped;
But the youth is no longer a youth, but a man,
When the first of his dreams is dead.
‘Tis a cup of wormwood and gall,
When the doom of a great man is said;
And the best of a man is under a pall
When the best of his dreams is dead.
He may live on by compact and plan
When the fine bloom of living is shed,
But God pity the little that’s left of a man
When most of his dreams are dead.
Let him show a brave face if he can;
Let him woo fame and fortune instead;
Yet there’s not much to do, but to bury a man
When the last of his dreams is dead.
~William Herbert Carruth~
Every April God rewrites the book of Genesis.
April comes from the latin word Aperire – a word which describes the opening of a leaf.
April’s inconsistent weather is a month of unfolding bud, of warmth and cold, sunshine and showers – it parts with flower and sky. Excerpt from the book “Country Seasons” by Philip Clucas
To stand still during April is to view the rebirth of nature, her voice is once again to be heard in the continual stir of bees, and in the call of the cuckoo echoing in the distant wood.
April hath put the spirit of youth in everything. William Shakespeare
Over increasing large areas of the U.S., spring now comes unheralded by the return of the birds, and the early mornings are strangely silent where once they were filled with the beauty of bird song. Rachel Carson
Memorial Day otherwise referred to as the Moment of Silence is observed in Nagasaki, Japan to remember the victims of the second atomic bomb attack on this day in 1945…
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor girls’ brows shall be their pall’
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds.
~Wilfred Owen 1893-1918~
Oscar Wilde, an amusing wit who had the uncanny ability to cut to the truth…
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. ~Oscar Wilde~
The soul is born old, but grows young.
That is the comedy of life.
The body is born young and grows old.
That is life’s tragedy.